indeed, Maria, if your brother had married a violent-tempered woman."

"I am not that. Why do you make it seem so?" said Christian, still
trembling. And then, her courage breaking down under a cruel sense of
wrong. "Why can not you see that I am weak and worn out, longing for
a little peace, and I can not get it? I never did you any harm--it is not
my fault that you hate me. Why will you hunt me down and wear my
life out, while I hear it all alone, and have never told my husband one
single word? It is cruel of you--cruel."

She sobbed, till Arthur's sudden waking up--he had been fast asleep on
the sofa, or she might not have given way so much--compelled her to
restrain herself.

Miss Gascoigne was moved--at least as much as was in her nature to
be. She said hastily, "There--there--we will say no more about it;" took
up her work, and busied herself therewith.

For Aunt Maria, she did as she had been doing throughout the contest--
the only thing Aunt Maria ever had strength to do--she remained
neutral and passive--cried and knitted--knitted and cried.

So sat together these three women--as good women in their way, who
meant well, and might have lived to be a comfort to one another. Yet,
as it was, they only seemed to live for one another's mutual annoyance,
irritation, and pain.

A thunder-storm sometimes clears the air; and the passion of resistance
into which Christian had been goaded apparently cooled the family
atmosphere for a few days. But she herself felt only a dead-weight--a